Indian Chronicles: The Ice Wolf
by ejwrites
Summary: A young tribal is on a quest for answers and vengeance. A brutal war in the ruins of the Capital in Cheyenne between a revitalized Legion, and a faction known only as the Ronin. And an unknown faction that will test the resolution of the Tribal. Because war, war never changes. And the Ice Wolf will look for his father, his true father.
1. Chapter 1

_In the plains of Wyoming, peace and prosperity were the norm of life. Raiders and tribals didn't bother the settlements, instead battling it out over the small parts of the grassland. Raiders fell, tribals bled, and the world continued on. This cycle continued for two hundred years, until a certain tribal started on a journey to end the fighting for all. _

_Even though the bombs had wiped out civilization, humanity continues. Because war, war never changes. _

December 21st, 2283 2:30 PM.

Grasslands, Wyoming

A brown haired, blue eyed, Native American male, silently stalked a young deer that was grazing in the grasses of Wyoming. The youth was on his first hunting trip that he was able to go alone. Drawing the string of his hunting bow back, he reached for an arrow in his quiver. Snatching one, he placed the arrow on his string carefully, and aimed for the deer's head. He let the string go and the arrow flew, tearing into the deer's neck. Letting out a whoop, the young hunter, who they called Ice Wolf, sprinted towards the fallen beast.

"May the Great Spirits bless you brother." he prayed before reaching down and grabbing a small knife out of his vest pocket. Grasping the iron blade, he cut the skin off of the deer and rolled it. He then cut the meat out, leaving nothing to be wasted. Hours later, he was done, and started the short trip back to his village.

Living in the wasteland was not hard for Ice Wolf and his tribe, the White Wolves. The White Wolves had settled into the grasslands over a century ago, and were one of the most prosperous tribes. They ate well, hunted well, and slept well. But they never forgot to give praise to the Great Spirits and respected all life.

Breathing in the fresh scent of grass, Ice Wolf carried the carcass of the deer on his back, when a small clearing was seen. Smoke was rising and Ice Wolf breathed deeply, for his village was preparing for the Winter Festival. Smiling, he ran down a small hill overlooking the village, and saw the thatch roofs of the houses. The Chief's longhouse was right in the middle, and his warriors lived in three barracks that were scattered among the houses. Running and greeting several fellow tribesmen, and saw a small house. On the porch, was his grandmother, knitting a wool sweater, and was sitting on a rocking chair. His mother, was cooking fresh rabbit caught by him that morning, and his sister and brother were busy practicing their archery. He didn't know where his older sister was, though.

"Gamma!" Ice shouted and his grandmother turned. The wrinkled and weathered woman put down her sweater and got out of her chair and hugged the young hunter. Ice grinned before showing her the young deer carcass on his back.

"Oh Ice! You got your first deer! And at a such a young age!" she exclaimed. Hunters in the White Wolves usually waited for their sixteenth birthday for going out hunting alone. But Ice had grown was tall, standing five foot ten, was lean but extremely toned. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He was fifteen, and already one of the most experienced hunters for his age.

"Yes Gamma! Do you like it?" he asked. He and his grandmother were close, and she had taught him many things about life.

"Of course grandchild! Come inside, we must show your mother!" she said and pulled Ice into the house.

A delicious aroma filled the air, as spices, meat, and veggies, were mixed into a pot. A happy looking woman, wearing a long tribal dress, decorated with beads and knots, was stirring it, when Gamma and Ice entered the kitchen.

"Ice! How was your first hunting trip alone?" she asked excited. She was proud of her son, and hoped that he became a warrior just like his father.

"It was good. Caught a deer." and he showed her the deer.

"Thats great! My little boy, growing up so fast!" and she hugged Ice. Ice was stunned before returning the hug. Usually his mother would just scold him or praise him. Never had she hugged him or get so emotional.

"Thanks Ma." and he broke the hug. Two minutes later, a figure, wearing a vest with a white t-shirt underneath, and blue jeans opened the door and ran inside. She was crying and huffing, her eyes red. Her black hair was tangled and rustled, and tears were streaming down her cheek. Ice placed the deer in his mothers hands and went over to her.

"Maria? What's wrong?" he asked. Maria was his older sister, wild and free. She had picked her name out of an old magazine, and her clothes when a traveling caravan came around during the spring when the roads let up and the snow melted.

"Charles, he, he struck me." she whimpered before sobbing into Ice's hands. Charles was Maria's off and on boyfriend as she called it and Ice disproved of him. He drank to much fire water, and wasn't very liked by Maria's family.

"Why?" he asked. Ice was getting angrier by the second, but refused to show it. Charles though, would see it very soon.

"We were in an argument. I just found out that, I'm pregnant." she said. Ice recoiled in disbelief. His older sister, no older than eighteen, was pregnant, most likely with Charles child.

"When did this happen." Ice asked. He was the younger one, but was mature beyond his years. He had to be, for his father was often out in hunting parties during the year. He rarely came home, but he was much loved by his kids and wife.

"Last week. Charles and I were drinking fire water and got drunk." she said, hoping she didn't have to go into much detail. Her sobbing had stopped, but her heart still throbbed.

"I'm going to have a chat with Charles." Ice said. Maria immediately grabbed his arm, and pulled him back.

"Please Ice. Don't get hurt." she pleaded and Ice nodded. Ice was one of the best trained hunters in the village, but Charles was tall, mean, and when drunk, used a shattered beer bottle as a weapon.

"I won't. But he will." he said and opened the wooden door. Exiting he slammed it in frustration and sat on the porches steps. Thinking on how to confront Charles, he whistled. A moment later, a small grey wolf came sprinting, and leaped right into Ice's lap.

"Hey Grotto." he greeted and the wolf nuzzled him.

"Seems like you found Grotto." a feminine voice said in front of him.

"Oh hey, Ashika." and a young Native American girl stepped into his line of sight. She was fifteen as well, had long flowing black hair as dark as night. Her stormy green eyes were in contrast of Ice's calm blue eyes, and her delicate features only augmented her beauty.

"Hi." she said nervous. The two had been best friends since they were children, ever since Ice had saved her from some bullies. She was the chieftain's oldest daughter and Ice was like her bodyguard of some sorts. The duo's friends were always teasing them about liking each other and they always denied it, though deep down, they both knew it was true.

"What are you doing on your porch?" she asked bewildered. Usually her energetic friend was hunting or sharpening his beloved tomahawk.

"Thinking." and he slipped into a deep thinking pose, earning a small chuckle from Ashika.

"Thinking about what?" she asked.

"Thinking about the weather. Thinking about my family." he said.

"And thinking about you." he muttered under his breath.

"What was that last part?" she said, swearing she heard him say thinking about you.

"I said thinking about my sister." he covered and Ashika frowned, disappointed. She quickly then turned that frown upside down when Ice looked up at her, his blue eyes, full of calmness and understanding, met her wild and stormy eyes.

"What about your sister." she said breaking the stare.

"She got into some trouble with her good for nothing boyfriend." he said, anger evident in his voice. He hated Charles with all of his heart, and had confided Ashika with this information.

"What kind of trouble?" she asked curious. It was known throughout the village of his love for firewater, or whiskey as the traders called it. The firewater drinkers were always shunned in the village, and most of them were beggars, trying to earn a few caps for their beloved drink of champions.

"First of all, she's pregnant with the monster's kid. Second, he beat her. And I'm going to get back at him." Ice snarled.

"What are you waiting for? Go beat him up!" Ashika said trying to encourage him. Truth was, Ashika had been hit on by Charles and that disgusted her to no ends.

"He has friends. I don't why, but he does and they would defend him." he countered, trying to get out of fighting. He didn't want to fight seven to one odds, but he was a capable fighter.

"Who cares? If you beat him up nice enough, he wouldn't try it again!" she retorted. She saw the gears running in his head before his head snapped up, he planted a small kiss on her cheek and smiled widely.

"Thanks Ashika! You're the best!" he shouted before running off into the opposite direction of where she came from. She stood there, stunned, before moving her hand to her cheek, lightly touching it.

"I'm the best," she whispered.

"I'm the best."

**Hello! First fanfic! Please review. First story as well!**


	2. Chapter 2

It was winter time. Fresh snow continued to sprinkle along the village, while tribesmen and traders conversed about the world. In the north, there it was rumored that a new tribe, called the Mongolians had sprung up. People in white doctor coats had also been seen there, though only the bravest traders made the perilous journey there. The raider clans that inhibited the parts were well armed, dangerous, and hostile to everyone but their own clan.

There was also talk about an actual city that had been rebuilt by a machine man. He had an army of robots and a cyborg for a right hand man, known only as the Courier. The White Wolves were unique in the way that they weren't cut off from the outside world, and many in Wyoming feared them, due to their bond with the local grey wolves. The reason they got their name was because they were rumored to have white war wolves in their village. It was all fake of course, and Ice dismissed it.

Ice sprinted through the village, barely dodging the confused and incoming tribals. His friend Issac, a pudgy, black haired, brown eyed, black male, was waiting for Ice. The two had been friends since they were five, and only Issac knew of Ice's crush on Ashika.

"Hey Ice!" the pudgy Issac greeted.

"Not now Issac. " and his eyes shifted towards a group of men.

Seven men, dressed in white vests, white pants, and white shoes were standing next to the general store. Sipping firewater, their leader had dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes that spoke hate, and pale white skin. His hands were snaked around a youn petite blonde. The two were refugees from a war down south, in a place called the Mojave. That the fact that who had his hands snaked around the blonde was Charles and the young hunter called Ice clenched his hands in anger. How dare him! They had given him shelter, food, water, and a opportunity to shine. Yet this drunk has done nothing but drink, defile his sister, and put a Bloch on the tribes name. The White Wolves had accepted many refugees over the last seven years, all fleeing from a war. In the north was the Raider clan wars, in the south were the wars between the faction known as the NCR and Caesar's Legion. Most of the refugees integrated well into the expanding village, but some like Charles, were freeloaders.

"Charles!" he yelled and the dirty man turned and growled.

"What do you want, squirt?" he taunted and Ice grimaced.

"I want to talk. Why?" he asked. Charles looked at him confused.

"Why what?"

"Why did you abandon my sister?" he said angry, his hands nearing his tomahawk.

"Why?" he laughed. Several of his friends laughed as well. Charles let go off the girl and went to drink it, only for an arrow to snatch it from his hands and it shattered. Glass rained all over his hands and blold started to pour.

"What the heck man!" Charles yelled. His hands had glass shards cutting deep into the skin, fresh blood streaming.

"Answer the question Charles." Ice growled. His bow was already with another question. Ice hated the man with all of his heart.

"Cause the girl had the nerve to tell me to stop drinking." he answered. Ice growled a primal growl before loosing another arrow. The arrow pinned Charles to the general store wall.

"What the heck!" he yelled. His friends were stunned until Charles egged them on.

"Get Em!" he yelled and the six cronies charged forward, swords, bats, machetes, and tire irons ready.

Ice dodged the first blow, and drew his tomahawk, dropping his bow to the ground. Side steeping a stab, he brought the blunt part of the axe straight onto the guy who had tried to stab him, back. The blow knocked him out, blood pooling at the wound.

The next one swung a bat to his side which Ice parried. Ice then twisted cat like to avoid the next blow. Slightly panicking the bat wielding moron hesitated for half a second, letting Ice go on the attack. Swinging his tomahawk in downsward arc, the tomahawk cleaved the bat right in half. The useless weapon cluttered to the ground and Ice smashed his fist straight into Batboys face, making him drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. His jaw cracked and bone broke, red blood oozing from the punch.

"Is that all you've got?" Ice mocked. One of the cronies, his hair spiked up, looked at him in fear. He then glanced at another cronie and they nodded. Yelling, they came forward their knives aimed for Ice's heart. Ice sidestepped the stab and grabbed the nearest cronies arm. Twisting it, a loud and audible crack was heard, and the cronie yelled in pain, his arm hanging uselessly on his side. He was thrown to the ground, making his arm twist even more, making him cry out louder.

The other cronie watched Ice closely, twirling his knife around. Ice calmly let go of the other cronie and unsheathed his hunting knife. The seven inch curved blade was dangerous in anybody's hands but in Ice's hands, knife fighting was an art. Carefully scanning his foe with icy blue eyes, he rushed forward, the knife hurling at the enemy with unmatched ferocity. The cronie whimpered in fear as he raised his knife in a clumsy attempt to deflect the strike. The blades clang against each other, and Ice swung again, his knife moving so fast, that the crony was barley able to deflect it again. Ice glared at him with hating eyes, his icy stare breaking him down little by little. Ice finally attacked again, his knife in a downs ward arc. The knife bypassed the defender's knife, and sliced through tendon and bone. The crony looked at the wound in his shoulder, and then looked at Ice. Ice looked at him with remorseful eyes, but refused to show it. The crony slowly fell, blood staining the snow filled ground.

Charles meanwhile was watching the fight with terror. With four of his six cronies out, and his little girlfriend having fled, only two of his morons remained. The remaining cronies had a machete and a chinese longsword. The machete wielding crony let out a fearful cry and advanced forward. Ice glared at him, his eyes narrowing, his breath coming in uneven sequences. He inhaled deeply.

"Get him!" the crony yelled, machete upraised. Ice calmly threw his knife forward, the blade hitting the machete right out of the crony's hand. The crony barley had enough time to register that he had been disarmed, until Ice came barreling forward. Ice tackled him, his head cracking against the snow. The snow cushioned his blow a little bit, but the hard surface of the ground still jarred his head. Seeing black and blue, his vision was further impaired when Ice's fist smashed into his nose, fresh red blood seeping through his white shirt. The blood blinded the poor man and Ice continued to punch him.

"Get off of him!" yelled the longsword wielding man and he raised his blood as well. As he was about to swing down, a white ghost with four paws leapt and tackled him to the ground. The ghost's teeth grew into a snarl and the crony's sword clattered to the ground. The ghost continued to advance, its paws making tracks in the snow while the man backed up. Loosing another snarl the ghost stopped and watched how Ice finally stopped punching the machete wielding crony. He then glanced at the downed crony on the ground and he shot up and ran, never looking back.

Charles looked at Ice with shock and awe. Ice the energetic, calm, understanding, and playful hunter had brought down several grown men, with just his fists, his tomahawk and his knife. His head turned to the arrow pinning him to the general store, and he finally yanked it out, the arrowhead gone. Charles smirked in victory until he remembered that Ice was still there.

"Think ya can beat me?" he drunkenly slurred. His right hand, full of glass shards and blood was raised in a bloody fist, while his uninjured hand cradled a bottle of whiskey.

"Yes." and Ice picked up his fallen weapons. Placing them on his belt and sheath, the young hunter grasped the bow and notched an arrow on the string. Time slowed to a crawl. Ice took a deep breath. Charles broke into a run, the whiskey bottle raised. Charles's dirty face broke into a wide grin as Ice aimed.

"You're dead meat!" Charles whooped and swung down. The arrow loosed and struck Charles hand. The arrow pierced the skin, exiting out the other way of the skin, and struck the poor white man's shoulder. Charles howled in pain and grasped his hand with his right hand. The glass shards on his right hand rubbed against his other hand and he recoiled again in pain.

"You little bugger!" he growled and continued to advance. His hands were massive, having been compared to a bears, and they were now outstretched. Ice calmly notched another arrow. He held his breath, waiting for the right moment. Charles again broke into a run, charging, anger and alcohol induced strength fueling him. He roared angrily, and his hands were about to grasp Ice's neck when the arrow was loosened for the final time.

Charles stopped, and looked down. A icy feeling spread throughout his body as the iron arrow protruded from his heart. He sunk down, his knees unable to bear the dead weight. Charles Roosevelt had died. His hands froze and his eyes stopped.

Ice looked at the dead man with regret. He had not meant to kill the man. He just wanted to teach Charles a lesson. The bow slipped out of his grasp, his eyes wide with shock. A crowd soon gathered and Ice snapped back into focus. He was going to be caught. He didn't want to be executed in front of the tribe for killing another tribesman. No matter how bad the person, killing a fellow tribesman was like killing kin.

Ice grabbed his bow and whistled. His ghost friend sprinted after him and they fled, running across the village and jumping over the snow wall the children had built just minutes before. Blood was splattered all over the snow near the general store and Ice was the cause of it. He had gone too far. He looked back in regret before fleeing into the grasslands, not looking back again.

Lone Wolf, the leader of a hunting party, slowly approached the crowd of people surrounding the general store. Pushing gently, his hands were resting on his holster, a .357 magnum, polished white, was gleaming through the holster. A lever action rifle, chambering .44 rounds and commonly known as the trail carbine, was strapped to his back, and a gleaming tomahawk, polished so the axehead shined was on his belt. As he finally managed to get through the crowd of people, what he saw shook him to the core.

A dead white male, dirty blonde, was lying face down on the snow, dried blood caked around his chest. An arrow was in his chest, and the arrowhead was seen protruding from the back. Surrounding him were several other white males, all knocked out and nursing wounds. One had a long gash on his shoulder, blood caked around the wound.

The others had several bruises and one had an arm hanging uselessy. Lone Wolf had never seen this kind of damage before. It scared him, not knowing who could have down this.

"Who did this?" he asked, addressing the crowd of people. The people muttered to themselves, also wondering who it was. Then a long slender character stepped up. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her dress slightly billowing in the wind. Her stormy green eyes met Lone Wolf's blue eyes.

"Ice did it. But don't blame him. I was the one who goaded him into attacking Charles." the girl said. Regret was shown in her voice, and Lone Wolf realized it was Askhika, Ice's friend.

"Why did he do it?" Lone Wolf cautiously asked. Ice was his eldest son, and was training to be a brave. Not even their best trained warriors could have taken down seven men like this.

"Because Charles got Maria pregnant."

Lone Wolf clenched his fists. He hated Charles, but Maria was happy around him for some reason. Now Maria wasn't going to have a father for her baby, his eldest son had disgraced himself trying to protect his sister's honor, and he had to fix this. Maria, his eldest daughter was pregnant.

"Ashika. Get Maria. Tell your father that you will be taking her to our allies the Ute. Tell him that as the chieftain's daughter, you have to find her a suitable husband. None of the men from this village will dare touch her. Now." and Ashika went off to her father. Minutes later she came back, but with a group of her friends.

"Father said yes. But I have to bring some people for protection." she said sadly.

"Go. Be back in a week."

As the group departed, the head hunter pondered about what he was about to do. But before he was able too, a bullet rang out. And the bullet's target was his wife. His wife had been running towards him, to tell him that Ice was missing when the bullet struck her in the back. Seconds later, the area surrounding the village was filled with the sounds of gunfire.

"What in the Great Spirits!" Lone Wolf yelled. Running he saw who the people who were attacking. Raiders. Dozens of them. The village was a lucrative target but the warriors were usually enough to keep them away. No. This was one of the raider clans, not one of the gangs. Another pause and four more tribals were struck. Blood was was wetting the snow, red starting to become the norm.

"No!" Lone Wolf yelled. His village was now on fire, fresh thatch houses fueling the flames. In a matter of moments, the village was gone. He sunk to his knees. In front of him was the dead body of his wife. He cried softly.

"Bye pretty boy." and Lone Wolf joined his wife.

**Sorry its rushed at the end. But the next chapter is really important and the plot begins to get good!**

**Sitting Bull.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Please Review! Please Review!**

Ice ran with reckless abandon. His vest was slick with sweat, his entire upper body was practically an ocean. Grotto ran after him, the white snow slowly falling off his fur. The two ran across the plains, never looking back. He had betrayed his tribe, betrayed his honor, and disgraced himself. Charles didn't deserve to die. He just didn't.

Ice then found a tree, untouched by the snow. Dropping his weapons, he collapsed onto the ground. Grotto as well fell down with the same effort. Ice looked at Grotto and smiled, for at least he had one friend in this merciless wasteland. He and Grotto had always been friends, no matter what had happened. Wondering what was going back home, he imagined they were getting ready for the Winter Festival. Ashika probably frolicking around with that boy that moved that just moved from the Ute tribe. Issac stuffing himself with brahmin steak, his dad likely in the house, feeling to embarrassed to get out of the house. His sister crying because nobody would her raise her child.

His mother crying because her eldest son was gone. His brother and sister, both younglings, most likely were having fun, and it never crossed their minds to ask where were he was. His Gamma sleeping, trying to get rid of the odd feelings in her chest.

"Its just you and me buddy. No Gods, No masters. We are free to do what we want." he whispered into the wolf pups ear. The wolf pup responded with a lick, his rough tongue licking Ice's cheek. Ice laughed as the warm feeling spread through his face.

_What do we do now? _Grottos eyes said. Ice gave a bitter laugh. He had no idea.

"Grotto. We have to get further away. I have heard stories from the caravan traders of a small settlement. We ran west away from the village. They said it was north, right into the High Plains." Ice said, excited. Grotto was licking his fur, trying to get more snow off.

"Tomorrow, I'll get us some rabbit and deer. Now, we rest." and Grotto grunted, his grey fur showing once more. The pup then lifted himself up, paced in a circle for a few seconds and then laid back down, drifting into a dreamless sleep. Ice stayed up, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach. He had to make a life for him and his pup, and the settlement known as Fort Laramie, near the highly irradiated North Plains River. He had heard from the traders that the city of Cheyenne was a center of warfare, poverty and destruction. The city of Torrington was rumored to be the center of the caravans but they never told, was also nearby and Ice made a pact to himself. In one year, he would return, and face any punishment given to him. But now, he was going to use his newly founded freedom to do a little good. Petting Grotto's fur, the young hunter curled next to him, and drifted into sleep, wondering what would happen.

Dream

_Ice was in a city. Collapsed buildings blocked off most of the streets surrounding him, and a sickly smell reached his nose. Disgusted, he looked around to see dozens of corpses surrounding him. _

_Stunned and fearing he would be next, he ran, nearly tripping on a bloated corpse. It was full of bullet holes and he continued to run. Passing by a ruined library he smashed against a sudden wall. Disoriented he found himself in an alley, where a poor black haired girl was cowering in front of him._

_"Why Ice? Why Ice?" she repeated, still cowering. Salty black tears were falling, and Ice stood there, too stunned to do anything. _

_"Why Ice?" she asked again, and Ice stood there, frozen._

_"Why Ice?" and she raised her head, revealing it to be Ashika. Her eyes were black as night, her tears now white as the snow._

_"Why Ice?" her voice deepened to a scary bass tone and Ice backed away slowly, finally finding the motivation to move. Ashika started to grow, and bat like wings sprouted from her back. Her mouth enlarged and fangs grew, dripping black blood. _

_"Why Ice!" she screamed and lunged at him. Ice immediately placed his hand were his tomahawk was, and he grabbed nothing. Surprised and on the run, the young hunter tried to shake the now murderous love of his life. _

_"Why Ice?" she shouted and snakes shot up from her hair. Hissing a song of a death, he ducked into a side street not blocked by rubble. As he looked back, Ashika was right on his tale, and he panicked. Looking in front again, he saw a big black puddle of water._

_"Why Ice!" she asked once again, and Ice's blood boiled. In front of the puddle was Ashika, but when he looked back, it was Ashika. This Ashika laid lifeless, a huge serrated knife in her neck. Precious trickles of blood were splattered everywhere and he cried out in pain. _

_"See what you have done to me!" and Ice nodded, seeing the monster behind him walk up._

_"This is what happened. Now you will pay!" and claws extended from her hands. Ice gave up, not wanting to live anymore. Claws tore into his chest, but Ice didn't feel a thing, just emptiness. The snakes bit down with their fangs, the wings beat as she lifted him up in the air._

_"Now you will pay!" she yelled and bats sprang from the city, circling them. Her fangs were now dripping with red blood and her eyes a clear blue._

_"Now you will suffer for what you have done!" and she threw him down, hurdling towards the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. But he didn't care. Ashika was gone. _

_"Now you will feel the same pain I felt!" and she caught him. The claws were retracted but one._

_"Now you will pay for abandoning me." and she tore at his chest. Ripping the skin off at his chest, she stopped and smiled a devious smile. Ice's still beating heart was pumping more and more blood. _

_"You will pay for ripping out my heart!" and she grasped the heart of the hunter. Ice did nothing to stop her, for he thought he deserved it. _

Ice woke up, sweat pouring down his chest. Grotto was still fast asleep. What was that nightmare? Ashika, a human bat-like creature, corpses, and her accusing him of ripping out her heart.

"Great Spirits. What the heck are you doing to me?" he yelled at the darkened sky. The sun was now rising, and beams of orange and red broke through the skyline, and snow started to melt. But as quickly as the sun appeared, the clouds blocked him, cutting off the Plains from heat and warmth.

Grotto raised one eye open and saw his best friend panic. Grotto had sensed it in his sleep, but he didn't want to bother him about it. He knew of the two man beasts affection for each other, and once he had tripped Ashika into Ice's hands. He was just a pup, only a month old. The two stared at each other with longing eyes before Ice released her and they went and played in the summer grass.

"Grotto. Time to wake up." Ice said and patted Grotto on the back. Grotto yawned and licked his nose before rising, and then collapsed onto the snow again. Ice let out a throaty laugh, only for Grotto to spring up and leap around.

"Ok Lazy Bones. You're up. Lets go hunt us some deer." and Grotto barred his teeth in response, his way of saying he was ready.

The two left the tree and headed north, for two reasons. Game was near the old river, and it was closer to Fort Laramie, the settlement he was traveling to. Crossing a dry stream, the two continued on, watching as the snow continued to sprinkle down. Ice laughed, and then shivered. He was wearing short sleeves, but since the White Wolves had all been born with a resistance to cold, it didn't bother him as much.

The two then crouched down, for a group of men were passing. Dressed in a strange metal armor, with three spikes on each shoulder pauldrons, the five men were laughing and cheering. Drunken, Ice could smell the stench of alcohol on their skin. One of them, with a large green mohawk, a dirty .32 pistol on his hip, and a tire iron on his back, was swinging a bottle of beer around, drunkenly happy.

"We sure showed them boss!" he bumbled happily.

"Be quiet you bumbling idiot!" the boss said. The boss sported a bald head, a strange wooden cross around his neck, and the words White Power, were tattooed to his forehead. His dirty white skin was covered in dirt, like he had just rolled around in it.

"Why? We already took down those tribals! What else they going to do?" the bumbling man said, taking a swig of the alcohol. The boss muttered something incoherent before stopping suddenly.

"You hear that?" he whispered. His hands went to the double barreled shotgun on his back, and one other raider who wasn't drunk drew an outdated .22 pistol.

"Marc. Go forward." and the raider nodded. Marc slowly walked forward, his .22 pointed forward, heading for directly where Ice was. The young hunter, breathed deep breaths. Still crouching, his hand went to the tomahawk. Waiting for the raider to pass, he sprung up, surprising the raider. Grabbing him, he smashed the tomahawk into the raider's stomach, the iron head easily piercing the armor. Cursing, the raider tried to level the pistol at Ice, only for Ice to grab the pistol and pull the trigger. Th bullet exited the chamber and entered the raider's boot, making him howl even more in pain. Ice then drew his hunting knife, the serrated blade glinting. Grinning, for his knife had never failed him, he stabbed down, the blade sawing through the armor.

"Who are you?" the raider gasped as the knife finally pierced his armor.

"I am Ice!" Ice proclaimed.

"And thats what you gonna be if you don't get off my boy." the boss said, cocking a .44 magnum. Ice slowly got up, hands behind his back. THe bow was still slung over his back.

"Now, nice and easy," the boss ordered, not seeing that Ice still had his tomahawk.

"Now, die." and he pulled the trigger.

Ice ducked down, the .44 bullet whizzing over his head and sinking into the lead raider's armor. The bullet exploded violently and the raider died, rather a gruesome death. Ice then grabbed the tomahawk from his belt.

"No, you die!" he yelled and started a deadly song. Ice swung, the tomahawk slicing the air. The boss ducked under the swing and fired the .44 again, only for the wind to pick up and the bullet shifted, and instead of taking Ice's head, it took a part of his ear.

"Ahh!" Ice yelled as flares of pain lit up. Chunks of his ear splattered to the ground, as he winced in pain. The boss took the advantage of his position and slammed the butt of the revolver down. Ice fell down, pain flaring everywhere. Hot red blood streamed from the half of his right ear. Grotto laid dead, one raider in his jaws, another under him.

"Grotto." He said, in vain. The grey wolf did nothing but stare, his black blue eyes full of death.

"Kid. You think you can take me. I am the Boss. I killed a chieftain for this revolver. Now. Turn around." he ordered. A sense of deja vu filled Ice's senses as he turned around, his knees still on the ground.

"TIme to die kid." and the sound of a hammer being pulled for the final time.

"Should have ran when you had the chance."

A single growl challenged that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Come on People! At least 43 people have read part of this fic. Not one has reviewed. Just review! Its my first story. I want to know what to improve, how well I'm doing, criticism please! For you guys that just want to do a quick good or bad, thats great as well! Just please review! I signed up for this sight because of the vast amount of people that write and review! Please! I'm begging you guys!**

As the rays of the sun slowly penetrated the clouds on that eventful winter day, the dark swirls of snow lightly fell on Ice's shoulders as the .44 magnum placed roughly on his face trembled slightly. A low growl had challenged his death, and the raider who had his revolver against Ice's temple tightened his grip when he saw what had growled.

A large white wolf appeared. Its coat was the color of snow, its jaw muzzled with brown and grey. Its eyes were hazel, and it darken as it growled. Powerful paws made tracks as it slowly circled the boss, the .44 still pointed at the hunter. Large muscles were seen at the legs of the wolf, and several scars were evident on its body. The wolf emitted confidence and anger, its teeth bared. The wolf was angry, its face in a snarl. Snapping its jaw, the wolf stopped.

"Nice doggie." the boss said. The other remaining raider looked at the white wolf with a look of pure terror.

"Boss. That's a white wolf." he whimpered. The white wolves were a legend. They were intelligent and fierce, and not one had been seen in the last two hundred years. They were feared, and children went to bed with the story that the white wolf would get them if they weren't asleep. It was rumored that they could talk, but since not one as been seen, no one knew for sure.

"I know. Take him out." and the raider turned his head towards the hating eyes of the white wolf. Pulling out his .32, he approached.

"Time to die doggie." and he aimed the pistol at the wolf. The wolf looked at him with curious eyes, almost innocent. The raider softened a little, for the wolf was really putting the puppy look on.

"Why with the puppy eyes?" he groaned in annoyance and loosed the grip on the pistol slightly. Mistake. The white wolf slowly winded up and leapt, grabbing the pistol with its teeth. The pistol was crushed underneath the powerful teeth of the white wolf, and along that, the man's hand. Red slowly trickled onto the snow, staining it. The raider simply made no sound, for shock was running through his body. His hand that had made its home around the pistol was now on the ground, now a broken and smashed mess.

"My hand..." he said softly.

"Yes you're hand. It is gone. I have no patience for raiders in my territory, trying to kill one of my pack." a low and caring voice said. It spoke with an air of confidence in one's ability, but with humbleness. It came from no where, the raider reasoned before it started again.

"Yes it came from me. The White Wolf. No one has ever heard one speak before, because they are dead. You, the raider with the revolver." and the wolf turned to face the boss.

"Let him go. Otherwise, forfeit your life." he warned and the raider laughed.

"Ha! I have the gun!" and to emphasize his point he pointed his .44 towards the wolf.

"And you forgot one vital thing." the wolf replied, one paw on the handless raider.

"What is that? I forgot to pull the trigger?" he mockingly said. He raised the magnum and leveled it at the wolf's head.

"No. You forgot the hunter." and the raider's brow furrowed in surprise. Just as it dawned on him that his revolver was the only thing keeping the wolf at bay, a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around. He was again surprised to see Ice, his cold blue eyes raging, raise his fist and smash it against his nose, breaking it. Crying out in pain, the raider's hand went to his nose, and he dropped the .44. Ice then punched him right in the stomach, winding him, as air forced its way out of his body. He keeled over, and received a knee to his gut, making him force more air out.

As he struggled to remain balanced, the raider looked up in terror as Ice picked up his tomahawk, sunlight reflecting off the blade. The tomahawk was held in one bloodied hand, and in the other, was the long and slender hunting knife, its serrated blade ready to finish him.

"My magnum." he groaned as he saw the black chromed machine of death just a foot away from where he stood. His eyes betrayed his intentions, for when he looked up to see Ice, the tomahawk was already out of his hand, and making its way towards his body. Twisting his body, he managed to avoid the most intense of pain, but the tomahawk cut into his shoulder, breaking off a metal spike. The spike then made landed right where he stood next, and his foot was impaled on it.

"Arrggghhh!" he cried out as hot flares of pain shot through his body. His foot was now a mess, a foot long spike gutting of it. He was now on the floor, trying his hardest to get the spike out, only for more pain to flare out.

He then looked up, and Ice was kneeling next to him, Ice's hunting knife in Ice's right hand. THe blade was dangerously close to the raider's neck as Ice fought back the urge to stab the raider.

"What tribe was destroyed?" he asked. Venom was evident in his voice, for the raiders were not tolerated by tribals like him.

"How do you know a tribe was destroyed." the raider asked.

"We sure showed them boss. Now, since you are the boss, answer the question." he then slowly raised his knife and pointed it towards the raider's cheek. Slowly gravitating towards it, he cut softly, the serrated edge leaving a small gash. The raider flinched visibly in pain, and he screamed.

"The White Wolves! We destroyed the White Wolves." he screamed out. Hot red blood was now steaming the cold snow, and Ice cut deeper, his anger slowly taking control of him.

"The White Wolves? You destroyed my tribe!?" he yelled angrily. His tribe, destroyed. No more Dad, no more mom. No family or friends. And he was the last one.

"Not all of them! We tracked some down to the Ute tribe. The Raider King wants them dead for some reason." he said. Ice was still angry, but not as angry. Some of the old tribe was still alive. He felt a small ray of hope make it to his heart.

"How many of you are there?" Ice asked, and when silence was the answer, he cut again.

"Ahhh! Ok! There's about forty of us trying to wipe out the remnants. The rest of the clan went back to the base. We moved it, I don't know where it is! Please. Just stop!" he sobbed. Pain was exploding everywhere in his face, and blood was seeping through his armor. Ice then let go of the man, and went over to the man's revolver. Picking it up, he looked at it with disgust.

"This machine. How many White Wolves were killed with it?" he asked. Rage was everywhere, no point in hiding it.

"None. I had a machine gun when we attacked the village. Lost it." the raider said.

"Good. It is untainted of White Wolf blood." the hunter said.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am the last Ice Wolf. My tribe is still alive. This machine will be the instrument of my vengeance." and he looked at the black chromed death machine. It was beautifully made, the black plates were polished, and the barrel had an etching. It read, _Revenge is sweet, but dig two graves. _

"Huh." was that Ice said." Grave Digger."

"Release me from my torment. Take my magnum and seek revenge, and dig your own grave. The Raider King will kill you!" the raider proclaimed. Ice raised Grave Digger and fired. The raider was released from his mortal torment.

The White Wolf looked at Ice with mournful eyes.

"You are young. You are brash. You are quick to anger. Yet you are calm. You are wise beyond your years. Come Ice Wolf, for the time of vengeance has come. But first, we tend to the burying of dead." and Ice looked at Grotto. His body was cut all across the stomach. The handless raider that had tried to kill the White Wolf had died from blood loss and shock.

Ice was full of sorrow. Rage and sadness coursed through his young veins, snow flowing onto the body of the young wolf pup.

"He was truly a White Wolf." the wolf said. Ice nodded in agreement. Ice loved his friend. But now was not the time for mourning. It was time for death and destruction. A path that will lead the young hunter to his destiny. But for now, the White Wolf thought, let the pup rest.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Please. Please. Please. Please. Review!**

Ice had been crying for sometime now. It had been about a few hours after the burial. Using a small knife taken from one of the raiders, he had dug a small grave for the pup. He was angry at himself for not saving the pup, but wrestling with a full grown man had distracted him. He was the one who had lead the ambush.

It was dark now, the twilights of the evening star shined and danced along the evening sky. Orion's Belt was especially bright, the orange and yellow mixing to form a beautiful shape. Ice looked at the stars with disdain, for they were immortal and he wasn't. He had heard stories of bright explosions in the starry sky, but he didn't believe in such foolishness.

Snow had stopped, and the white thick powder still laid upon the ground. Ice slowly trudged from his sitting position and stood up, shaking some flakes of snow off his vest. His knife was tucked safely in his sheath on his vest, while his bow was in his hands. The wolf was sitting on his haunches, lightly licking the snow with his rough tongue.

The Cheyenne Mountains to the west swirled with light, as the mountain tribes and raiders fought a never ending battle. Looking south, Ice saw the muzzle flashes of artillery as people fought over a still burning city. All of this death and destruction was never evident to the boy, until now. He thought about this, and it made him sick to his stomach. He hated the fact that Wyoming was home to such degenerates, people that killed other people over a bottle of dirty water, or killed their best friend for a package of two hundred year old mac and cheese.

Sighing, he counted his lucky stars that he grew in the plains, where the radiation hadn't taken an unholy effect on the prey, though the predators were another story. He heard tales that a monstrous creature, known as a Deathclaw inhabited the very center of the plains, a creature with unholy claws that killed with a single swipe, or the massive black bears that populated the northern forests.

His thoughts wandered to Ashika. _Ashika_. Just the mere name made him weary and love lorn. Her stormy green eyes, her wavy and long black hair, her grace, made him shudder in delightfulness. But he had no idea if she was alive or dead, though a voice in the back of his head said she was alive, though his mind said she was dead. The heart refused to comment on the matter, and Ice's grandmother always said, if the heart doesn't talk, then it is up for debate.

His heart was still mourning the death of Grotto, his loyal friend. The grey wolf had been by his side for less than a year, and he had been taken away from him. Wiping a stray tear from his cheek with his sleeve, he pondered his next move.

"Let us make haste to the Ute's. If we get there, then we can speak with the survivors." the White Wolf said, breaking the rather uncomfortable silence. Ice shifted his stance, placing more weight on his left foot. His hand snaked to a pocket on his vest, just above his left rib. Reaching down, he took a small photo out, showing a slightly younger Ice and Ashika, smiling broadly, while a small grey wolf was lying down, his stomach up. The teens were rubbing the wolf's stomach, and Ice smiled, remembering the event with great sadness.

"Yes. This place only holds death and regret." Ice said. His blue eyes wandered to where Grotto was buried and on a small metal tombstone, taken from one of the raider's metal breastplate and etched in it was.

_Here Lies Grotto, the most loyal wolf in the plains. May the Great Spirits guide him to rest as the rest of us mourn his death._

Ice then looked in front of him. It had been only two days since his escape from the village, yet it had been burned down, his tribe slaughtered to almost the last man, and his best friend was gone. Ice looked at the White Wolf, and smiled. He had gained a new mentor.

"What is your name?" he asked, and the wolf looked at him with playful eyes.

"But your name first. Mingan. The Grey Wolf. You have not earned the title of Ice Wolf from the White Wolves. But you will in time. Mingan. Revenge is an answer. Whether it is the right answer, only time will tell. But for now, we walk."

Mingan bowed deep, for the honor of having a White Wolf guide you was one of the greatest. He was the first one in over a hundred years. He would not dishonor himself again.

_I have been getting reports that the local White Wolves were wiped out by a group of raiders. Now this is just sad. This tribe was one of the most awesome tribes in the Southeastern Plains, but now the raiders have got to go. I mean seriously people. Fort Laramie can only do so much. So get off your tousches and do somethings. I'm talking to you Torrington. You guys have the guns and the men. I'm just a radio disc jockey in the middle of a giant war being fought over a desolate city._

The young dark-skinned man sighed as he rolled his desk chair and flipped the off button on his radio station. He then put on some catchy tunes, Jazzy Interlude, a fitting name, as he gathered reports from his contacts all across the Wyoming Wasteland. Flipping through them, he sighed again as he saw the same thing over and over. Raiders burned down this town, wiped out this tribe. At least a dozen reports, and more tribes done. Cheyenne, still a wreck and his building shuddered as a stray mortar round hit it. Things like this didn't bother him. As he flipped through the last report, his brown eyes scanned the last few sentences of it.

_Five Raiders dead. Two of gunshot wounds, another of blood loss, and two others with bite marks and their throats torn out. Stripped of their ammo and guns. Track marks in the snow. A small grave dedicated to a wolf called Grotto. Looks to be a tribal burying. And I witnessed a white wolf and a young teenager together. Don't ask me how I know his name, but the teens name is Ice, or Mingan. Thats all I got. _

_ -Luke_

The radio jockey spit. A white wolf? And a tribal. Looks like he had his next story. As the song ended he flipped the switch to on.

"Listen people of the Wyoming Wasteland. I have a special news report for you. For the first time in two hundred years, a white wolf had been seen, and in the presence of a young tribal. His name is Ice, and he is traveling. Where, we don't know. This is going to be the start of a new series. Indian Chronicles:The Ice Wolf. Sounds cool right? Plus five dead raiders! But alast, his wolf died. Let us take a moment of silence for Grotto his wolf But now I have troubling news. Another dozen reports of small towns and tribes being wiped out. By who? You took a swing and you got it! More raiders. Seems like these guys are organized. That's it! This is Black Sheep, signing off!"

December 25th, 2283.

Ashika was sitting on a grass mat while she braided Maria's hair. A nearby old world radio was blaring jazzy music and she was swaying with the music. She had heard of the devastation of her tribe, but she couldn't let it bother her. She was now the leader of the small ragtag group of friends that made up the remnants of the White Wolves.

As she twisted Maria's hair into another braid, she listened as the jazzy interlude between radio broadcasts stopped and young smooth voice filled in. It was Black Sheep, a young radio jockey in Wyoming, and his news was better than the other two news station. Both were propaganda stations of two superpowers. One was a nation based on Imperial Rome, according to the news, and was fighting for something called Pax Roma. It was called the Legion, and was lead by a man named Vulpes. The other was called the Ronin, a group based on ancient Japan. They were lead by a man named Tokugawa. Ashika couldn't care less. They could fight over the ruin of a city for all she cared.

"Listen people of the Wyoming Wasteland. I have a special news report for you. For the first time in two hundred years, a white wolf had been seen, and in the presence of a young tribal. His name is Ice, and he is traveling. Where, we don't know. This is going to be the start of a new series. Indian Chronicles:The Ice Wolf. Sounds cool right? Plus five dead raiders! But alast, his wolf died. Let us take a moment of silence for Grotto his wolf. But now I have troubling news. Another dozen reports of small towns and tribes being wiped out. By who? You took a swing and you got it! More raiders. Seems like these guys are organized. That's it! This is Black Sheep, signing off!"

She stopped braiding. She just couldn't believe it. Two days and she had thought Ice was dead. But now here it was, a radioman that was known for telling the truth and nothing but the truth. Her jaw dropped slightly as Maria heard the new as well.

She ran out of the house she was in. No sunlight was seen, for she was in a large cave, where the Ute people lived. It was massive, and dozens of people were traveling around, going to and fro places, while Ute braves carrying massive firearms and weapons were patrolling the area, keeping an eye out for anything.

She ran past, dodging and weaving around people, until she found a small hut, constructed out of adobe. Its walls were splattered with mud, and she threw the wooden door open. Inside was a spacious room, where four elderly men were sitting in a circle, passing a wooden pipe, silently humming.

"Chieftains." she greeted, slightly panting.

"Yes child." one of them greeted, a large headdress on.

"Ice is alive." she said and the four grunted in surprise. It was important for Ice to be alive, so he would approve or disprove of Maria's new husband. He was a young brave, silent but deadly, and Maria had taken a great liking to him.

"He is?" the head one said. He was wearing the biggest headdress for he was the High Chieftain, the leader himself.

"And he walks with a White Wolf."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you to FannonCannon for reviewing my fanfiction. Go read his and review his. Also review mine. I mean almost a hundred views and yet no one but him reviews. **

Mingan was busy digging through an abandoned camp. A campfire with small tendrils of flame was already up, and the White Wolf was lying gently on his side while he licked his rough fur. A small tent, taken from the camp, had also been set up, and Mingan was just getting use to the name. Finally reaching the bottom of a junk filled chest, he pulled out a large woolen blanket, perfect for the freezing nights the plains were known for. The White Wolf then stretched into a standing position, before sitting on his haunches.

Mingan was curious to why the usual calm and lazy wolf was up at such a late hour, with the silver moon up, dark and twisted clouds slightly blocking the moon's rays. As the fire crackled and embers scattered throughout the fire, the wolf then threw back its head and started a deep howl.

The howl was full of longing and meaning, and after it was done, another howl was answering, then another, then another, until at least a half-dozen wolves were howling, breaking the silence of the night. Most howls were feral, done out of fear, for the wolf packs of the plains feared the White Wolf, but one of them was just as full as meaning and longing as the other. It was slightly higher as well, Mingan noted, and was a little curious on who that wolf was.

"That was my mate." the White Wolf said, seemingly reading Mingan's thoughts.

"She has a beautiful howl." he responded, and respectfully nodded his head.

"Yes she does. It has been too long since I have seen her. We just had a litter of pups, all of them grey or white."

"When was that?"

"Five months ago."

"What have you've been doing?" Mingan asked, stirring the fire with a poker found at the camp.

"Hunting, thinking. I had to prepare for the tests the Great Spirits have thrown upon us." the wolf responded. The White Wolves, the actual ones, were firm believers in the Great Spirits, and people that challenged these beliefs always disappeared in the plains. So the missionaries such as the ones from the Mormons and the Abbey of the Road, generally stuck to the northern edge of the plains, and in the major settlements.

"What tests?" Mingan asked, his head slightly cocked to the side. He was wondering about Ashika again, wondering if she was alright.

"The ones from the barren city, the ones from the northern wastes, the one in both our hearts." the wolf responded, before stretching out his paws.

"The barren city?" he asked, confused.

"Yes the barren city. It has been told that the test will ensure your loyalty to a nation or something. I don't know. I only know what the shaman told me before I left my pack." the wolf confessed. The White Wolves Packs were roving packs of these wolves that hunted and lived in one area. They were lead by the Alpha male, who was the strongest and if he wanted to, could fight for any she-wolf, as long as the other mate was there. The White Wolf was the lead hunter, and he had been sent by the shaman, or the spiritual leader of the pack on his first quest, to the prove himself worthy of the title of Alpha Male. The current one was his enemy, He Who Fights With Fangs, but he was old and tiring.

"How did you guys get the ability to talk?" Mingan asked suddenly, breaking the wolf from his thoughts.

"Must have been from the bombs. THe radiation did something to the wolves in our area where it turned our fur into white, made us grow, and gave us the ability to talk. Just like it mutated the lizard or the bear." the wolf explained.

The boy was silent, for he was pondering his next question. The white wolf had just appeared from out of the ordinary and became his friend and mentor. It had been a week since his departure, and he was still heading to Fort Laramie. The Fort, according to a map found on a dead caravan guard, was just over five miles away, about an hours walk.

"What do you plan to do when you reach Fort Laramie?" the wolf piped up, for the boy had been rather vague on his intentions.

"Information on the group who destroyed my village. First step in my revenge." the boy said coldly. His eyes were burning hunks of ice, if that was even possible. He was mad, no angry, at the raider group who did this.

"What else? That cannot be all. I mean, you cannot support yourself on game alone." the wolf pointed out.

Mingan conceded to this logic. He was skinnier, but more toned, do the time in the wastes. He had to be careful, for the water in the plains were rather irradiated and only the nose of the White Wolf was able to keep him clear of these pools.

"Probably find work as a scout for some group. Hone my skills. The encounter with the raiders means that I need more training. Its not like trying to face down seven drunks." Mingan said, referring to the time that he had brought down Charles and his group.

"Well, I think we should head to Torrington after Fort Laramie. It is the caravan headquarters, and they pay rather handsomely for the dangerous hauls to the north." the wolf said. The north of Wyoming was home to literally hundreds of raider clans, all fighting over it. Again, rumors swirled from time to time that a group called the Mongolians were pushing them out one by one, but they were vague and often threw out the window of people's minds.

Light snow was falling softly on the dirt campground where they made their temporary home. Snowflakes danced on the White Wolf's nose, and Mingan bursted out laughing when the wolf tried in vain to wipe out of his forehead. Growling slightly at Mingan, the hunter closed his trap and threw away the key. The wolf smirked in victory, a small laugh forming.

Mingan looked further into the wastes, and saw as the tall brown grass of the plains break into a small clearing. Being only just five miles away, he could see the lights of the fort. The people that controlled the fort were known as the Regulators, a group of people that fought injustice with justice, and the only kind of justice was by the gun or by the sword.

Searchlights were on and swaying from place to place, beams of white hot light blinding any who were unlucky to be caught in its embrace. Armed Regulators, in their leather dusters, patrolled the dark black walls of the fort. The North Platte River flowed nearby, and was irradiated. Mirelurks, big humanoid crabs, infested the riverbanks. River Pirates were also a big deal, though they stuck to the east end since the west end was patrolled by the Regulators.

Mingan admired the Regulators, for doing something about the raider problem. Teams of Regulators often ventured into the wasteland, months at a time, in order to bring down these men. And yet like rats the raiders always returned.

Mingan rolled his sleeping bag next to the fire, warmed by the bright flame. As he fell asleep, he did was unaware of the five duster clad men heading straight for him.

Hector Torres was the Regulator Grandmaster. Hailed by many as the Hand of Justice, he was a slim man, of Hispanic descent. He was around five foot seven, had greying black hair, green eyes, often compared to the green water of the North Platte River, and was stocky, though not fat. He had a booming laugh whenever he was amused, and his eyes would always cloud when angered.

He was in the barracks, eating a humble meal of bread and water, slowly munching on a piece, when a Regulator, his second in command, and his wife, Esmeralda Torres opened the door to the barracks. It was deserted, for the Regulators were either on patrol or in the mess hall, eating and laughing merrily. Though the Grandmaster was often there, he was tired and wished for an early retire to the barracks. Though he prided himself on managing to be on the same level as his fellow Regulators, being fifty years old still took a toll.

"Hector." Esmeralda greeted. Her wavy brown hair was now sprinkled with some grey, and her skin was being to wrinkle a bit, but to Hector, her doe brown eyes still held the same luster he fell for thirty years ago. But he digresses.

"Yes Esmeralda." he said in a impatient tone. Esmeralda noted it,but reminded herself that the man was trying to combat literally hundreds of raiders at once. He was on the short end of the rope, and he was tired.

"We have five Regulators on the hill you wanted cover. Someone was there." she reported. She was the lead scout, for she had the ability to sneak up on anything.

"Who?" the Grandmaster asked. He hated that wastelanders were always trying to gain free meals out of the place. They were a police force and vigilantes, not a charity.

"It was a tribal. And a wolf. They were sleeping. We are standing vigil at the camp, and wait for your instructions on how to proceed." she said.

"I'll handle it. Tell Adrian he has the fort." and the old Grandmaster stretched out his legs. Grabbing an old and tattered hunting rifle from a rack right above his head, he undid the bolt, and to his delight, it still flourished and slid smoothly like the day he found it. Also grabbing a bandolier of .308 ammo from the same rack, he strapped the bandolier around, and adjusted to where it fitted him.

Satisfied, he hunkered down near the bunk, his hands searching for something with great importance. Letting out a small aha, he got it and slid out a small silver box. Undoing the box, he found a small cashiers box, with a small keyhole. Smiling to himself, he dug inside of his duster's pocket, rummaging around it until his hands grasped a small key. Laughing in amusement, he brought the key to the keyhole and turned to the left.

The box opened with a solid click, and the box swung up. Inside was a large revolver, silver plated. Runes of black and white were on the handle, while a small checkered pattern decorated the barrel. On the underside of the bottle were two words molded into one. _Checkmate._

Hector lifted Checkmate with his right hand, watching as the light from the barracks ceiling lighting danced off, and the checkered pattern became bright. Again smiling to himself and allowing the memories of the gun flood back to him. He the spun it around his hand, remarking with pleasure that he still had the skill to it before tucking it in holster at his belt.

Turning his undivided attention to his rifle, he loosened the strap on the rifle, and placed it over his shoulder. Tightening it, his amused face momentarily returning to a youthful gesture. As he did this his wife smiled in joy, for this was the first time the Grandmaster had seen joy and happiness in months.

Finally Hector got off from the bed and made his way to a small table. It was made before the war, and it was made of a solid hickory, one of the few to survive. On it was a small combat knife, with a brass knuckle grip on the hilt of the knife. The blade was serrated, ready to tear out the life of ones enemies, and the blade gleamed in the light.

Silently holding it with one hand, he twitched and the blade moved slightly, stabbing him. Wincing a little in pain, he never the less grinned, even as a trickle of blood appeared from his thumb. The blade was still as sharp as ever. Tucking into a black sheath on on his ankle, he pulled down the black pants and smiled again.

He was the Hand of Justice. Little did he know, that he was to meet a the beginning of a legend.

**Sorry for the shortness. Wanted to get this out before the end of Tuesday. **

**I am taking a moment to wish the victims of 9/11 peace, the survivors healing, and the first responders a firm thank you. I hope everybody pays a moment of silence, for this terrorist attack struck the heart of the United States. I was only four when it happened, but it has deeply affected me as well. **

**Again, I hope this never happens again. And please review. **

**Next chapter well me longer, thanks to the advice of FannonCannon. **

**Ej out!**


	7. Chapter 7

Somewhere near the city of Cheyenne, a large camp was in the process of waking up. Walls of scrap metal made a barricade, as a simple wooden drawbridge was the only way into the camp. Built on a large hill, the walls of the camp, with a guard tower for every twenty feet, were tall and imposing. In those guard towers were red clad men, wearing old war football gear, with black kilts. Some were patrolling around the camp, their hands on repeaters used by cowboys in past, with brown mongrels, bred from the dogs of Denver, followed loyally.

One of the men had the same armor on, but with a deeper shade of red, and spikes placed on the shoulder pads. A helmet, with black bird feathers on the back, was on his head, and strapped to his back was a 12.7 mm submachine gun. In his belt, and in a finely made black sheath was a crimson colored machete. He was clearly agitated, for his brow was furrowed, his forehead was slick with sweat, and he tapped his foot impatiently.

A man in red came running up, and the man with the helmet on threw his hands up in gratitude. The sun was beating down on them, making him sweat, for though it was winter, there laid a small patch of the wasteland that was untouched by the snow.

"Veteran Decanus Dead Sea, Recruit Legionnare Gaius Marius, reporting." the recruit said and saluted. His hand went to his chest and he bowed a little stiffly.

"Gaius. Ave to Caesar." Dead Sea greeted.

"Ave to Caesar." even though Caesar was dead, the Legion had not collapsed. In fact it prospered under the leadership of Vulpes Incultas, and the former head of the Frumentarii was now Caesar.

"The slave girls are quite beautiful." Gaius remarked. Several younger girls and woman were walking around camp, loads on their backs. They wore light grey rags, and had giant X on their chest, symbolizing their status as slaves.

"Yes they are. But for now, we march. The reason I had you transfer from the city of Cheyenne to here is because I have seen your record. You slayed two enemies in hand to hand combat, and both of those enemies were samurai. You have been promoted to Recruit Decanus and now a squad leader for this camp. We have reports of the Ronin spreading their talons into the north. We are the gateway to the communities of the north, and if this camp falls, then the rest of the Southeastern Wasteland of Wyoming will fall with it." Dead Sea said, his arms tightening.

"Yes, and thank you for the promotion." newly christened Recruit Decanus Marius said.

"No need to thank me. Now follow me." and the two Legionnares started their way around camp, heading towards the center, where a hastily constructed arena of some sorts was hosting a battle. Two slaves were battling out with a Legion mongrel, and the two slaves were armed with dented machetes swung it. The Mongrel leapt to the side and lashed out with a snap of the jaw, and caught one of the slaves on the arm. Suddenly yelling in pain as the fangs of the mongrel ripped through skin, the slave was brought down.

The other slave was calm as a lake, and slowly circled the mongrel as it tore out her friends throat. The black haired, long legged slave's blue eyes sparkled and then darkened, and then started to grey, no longer showing emotion. She couldn't be any older than nineteen.

"Who is that?' asked Gaius.

"That is Righteous. At least that was what she was called before we captured her. She is defiant and refuses to serve, so we sent her to the arena." Dead Sea explained. Righteous's skin was dirty, caked with mud and dirt. Her face though still held defiance, a saintly version of the Death.

"She will lose?" Gaius said, making it seem like a question.

"She will lose. For that Mongrel is the strongest in the entire Legion. Lupa, her trainer told me her name was." Dead Sea explained.

Lupa then growled as she stepped away from the remains of the other slave. Her mouth crept into a snarl, and redden teeth bared at Righteous. Righteous stood there, calm and calculating. Lupa wasn't expecting this. She was used to slave girls cowering, not staring defiantly into her eyes. She whimpered a little, before regaining her composure, and charged forward, her jaw snapping at the slaves leg.

Righteous turned, not fast, but not slow, like a ripple. Gaius jaw dropped slightly as she dodged the dog, and grabbed the dog by the mane, and tossed her five good yards. The dog yelped midair, and landed on her back. Gaius' thoughts wondered with anticipation as the Mongrel leapt right back into action, its claws extended and headed straight towards Righteous's eyes.

Righteous spun the ball of her left heel, and brought her right foot in a roundhouse kick, and Gaius shuddered at the sound of cracking bone. The Mongrel known as Lupa had been bloodied, and she wasn't happy.

"She is fighting well for a slave." Gaius said, avoiding the use of the word, woman. Dead Sea simply nodded.

"I remember the first time I saw a woman kill a Legionnaire. It was in Nelson, when the Courier attacked us. She was a Brotherhood Scribe, and yet fought unarmed like our Praetorians. She almost killed, if not had it been for Severus. He died valiantly." Dead Sea said solemnly. Gaius understood. Severus had been his brother in arms, and Dead Sea was Severus's cousin.

"Who is this Courier?" asked Gaius. He had heard stories from the slaves that had managed to survive the 2nd Battle of Hoover Dam, when he was still in basic. Now he was a Decanus, he wanted to know.

"The Courier is one of the most fearsome fighters, if not the most fearsome. He is handy with a blade, he calls a Katana, which is the same our enemies use. He destroyed entire garrisons by his lonesome, even going to the Fort, and killing Caesar himself," Dead Sea said and Gaius let out a breath of astonishment. So this is how the great Caesar died.

"He works for the mysterious overlord of New Vegas, Mr. House, and openly defied us. He wiped the floor with Lanius. I was there at the battle. I was lucky to escape with my life twice. Vulpes was also lucky." and Gaius's curiosity grew.

"How was Vulpes lucky?" asked Gaius.

"They met at a town called Nipton, where Vulpes had just wiped out the local population as a message. Vulpes tried to talk down the Courier into spreading the message, but the Courier just decimated the entire garrison at Nipton. Vulpes was lucky that several of squads of Assassins managed to distract the Courier." and Gaius shuddered.

"Distract?" he asked, flabbergasted. He was beginning to understand why Caesar, Vulpes, had decided to move north, instead of expanding west. This man was the reason why.

"Yes. Thirty-three of Caesar's finest, wiped to the floor by a 5.56 service rifle and a bowie knife."

Gaius was in all awe of this man. If the Courier's tales was to be true, then this man had the capability to turn the tide of any war. Gaius hoped that any descendant of the man was as dangerous as him. Because they would wipe the entire plains with their blood. If it were so easy.

"What does he do now?"

"He now leads the New Vegas Armed Forces, and right now, they are fighting a humongous war against the Legion. I feel sorry for the Legion in Arizona. That is why most of the leadership is here in Wyoming, so that the Legion can survive." and Dead Sea, the fearless commander of the _Legatus Pilus_, was showing just a glint of fear in his eyes. For in Gaius's eyes, showed the curiosity to know who the most hated man in the Legion was.

"Ave." a passing recruit said, before stopping.

"Veteran Decanus. We have heard a story on the radio." the recruit said, and Dead Sea tapped his foot impatiently.

"And?"he asked.

"We have heard of one who walks with a White Wolf." the recruit said. Gaius was shocked, for the White Wolves were an bizarre and queer species. No one knew if they were real, or the stories they told were true. All they knew, the ones that claimed to see a White Wolf, were usually dead within a fortnight.

And hopefully, he wouldn't claim to see one very soon.

_"I am the Courier. I secured the future of New Vegas. Now I am fighting a war against the resurgent Legion. I will decimate the ones who took my son!"_

_ -The Courier to his New Vegas Paladins, after finding out the location of Vulpes Incultas.'_

some people think that the Courier is heartless and cruel. He isn't. He is a good man, Veronica noted, otherwise, he would had would have followed Mr. House's word to the letter. But Mr. House was dead, though the entire population thought he was alive. The shining lights of the Strip reflected off the nights sky, as Veronica sipped from a bottle of brandy, lounging in the Presidential Suite of her best friend.

The Courier, which many people called him, was known as Andrew Williams, a Native American from Wyoming. He had lost a son when he was just fifteen, and now the thirty year old was angry. He had tracked down the Legion scum that had killed his son, and he killed them with his infamous That Gun. The 5.56 revolver was in his hands as the elevator dinged. The Lucky 38 was bristling with lights, though no one was allowed in the actual casino. Taking off his duster, he threw it towards a waiting coat rack, and went inside his room.

Waiting for him was his best friend Veronica. She was on his bed, sipping from a bottle of brandy and reading an old book, called A Tale of Two Cities. He couldn't care less. But Veronica was a very literature focused woman, is was the reason why they bonded in the first place. He placed his rifle, an old .44 trail carbine he called White Wolf, after his tribes name, on his rack of weapons, before tossing off his black combat armor, leaving just a shirt and his torn blue jeans.

He had been looking for Vulpes, and after discovering his location, he went into a rage. Wyoming was his home state, and after his son's death, he went into exile, traveling to California, and becoming a Courier. His friend and now mentor, Ulysses, was in charge of the Enclave Remnants bunker in the north, training volunteers into the United States Marines, a paramilitary force that he had founded after being talked down by Andrew.

Andrew was now sitting on his bed, wrapped in an old book by Sun Tzu, called _The Art of War. _It had been the key to his successes, and he was thrilled about it. His squad of New Vegas Paladins, formerly known as the Mojave Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, were his closest friends and allies. Though he was encased in his Elite Riot Gear, (old habits died hard), he lead his team into the fray, never backing down.

Veronica looked up from her bed, smiling sadly. She knew how it hard was for Andrew, always fighting and always killing. He hoped to stop the fighting one day, but it wasn't possible for people like him. She got up from the bed and went on his side, where he was silently mediating.

"Andrew. How goes the war?" she asked, looking for any traces in his eyes of resentment towards the Legion. Surprisingly, there wasn't any. Just remorse and sadness. A single tear fell from his blue sea eyes.

"Whats wrong?" she asked, for this wasn' the death machine she knew and loved as a brother.

"Today is the anniversary of my little sons death. He would have been sixteen today. I just miss him and my love so much." and Veronica moved to comfort the one who walked the Lonesome Road.

"Lets listen to some radio, maybe from Wyoming?" she asked and Andrew nodded. She turned to the small pre-war radio on the nightstand next to the bed, and turned the dial all the way to the right. It was the farthest that the radio could muster, and she supposed it would do. A cracking voice went online.

"This is Black Sheep, coming to you from a blasted war zone! Just one piece of news. A hunter, by the name of Ice Wolf, had just met the Regulators! He's up here in Wyoming! Hope you guys learn more about the cat. Also, if you can hear this, happy birthday Three Dog!" and the radio immediately turned into a catchy tone about a guy who was ranting about Civilization.

Veronica looked up, expecting to see a still crying Andrew. Instead, his jaw was dropped and he was smiling broadly.

"Why are you so happy?" and the grin made her think this was like a cliche moment from a movie. It most likely would become that.

"My son is alive!" he exclaimed happily.

She knew it.

**Ok! I have a challenge for all of those who have decided to read this little humble fic of mine. I challenge you to actually review. Not just read and it go ahead with your life. No, actually read the goddamn thing that I spend almost two hours each day to improve, only to be tossed to the wind. I just want more than one review while two hundred of you guys have at least read a part of this fic. **

**Just review. It takes less than a minute, because most of you have a lot of time or some time at least to be browsing around. Just say if its good or its bad, if you like it or don't like it. **

**And for the record. I think you guys are just going to ignore me. I hope you prove me wrong.**

**Writers United.**


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